


The Condition of Aramis's Soul

by Alona



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Political Intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: Christina of Sweden contemplates an assassination, and Aramis, by coincidence, leaves Fontainbleu just in time.





	The Condition of Aramis's Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



One wet afternoon in November of 1657, in the town of Toury near Fontainbleu, a fine though mud-spattered equipage arrived in the yard of an inn called the Jolly Goat. A man in a bishop's robes descended from the carriage. At the same time, upstairs in a set of not too costly rooms, M. Grivet, military supplier, was just sitting down to one of that inn's famous dinners. He heard and saw nothing of the newcomer's arrival, having interest to spare only for his meal. The dishes had been brought and were steaming appetizingly before him. Already M. Grivet heard the self-important step of his servant coming down the passage with the wine. The door to the outer room opened–and then M. Grivet heard his servant let out a yelp. 

"My apologies! I didn't hear you there behind me, monsieur." 

A honey-sweet voice, soft and thrilling, the voice unquestionably of an exquisite gentleman, answered him, too low for Grivet to make out the words. He found himself leaning forward to listen more closely. 

"Excuse me, excuse me, monsieur, but my master is having his dinner." 

The soft voice spoke again, less gently. 

"I'm sure I–" 

"Don't interrupt," said the voice, sharpening momentarily before falling back to a murmur. His speech was followed by a silence, and then the servant's voice once more, with a half-mutinous, half-fearful quaver in it that Grivet had not heard before: 

"That's unkind of you, monsieur–Monseigneur, very good, forgive me. I'm a simple man, Monseigneur, just trying to earn my bread..."

"Stand aside," said the unknown Monseigneur. 

There was a clatter, and then soft steps were approaching the half-open door of the inner room where Grivet listened. 

He sat up and prepared to object to both the interruption of his meal and the intimidation of his servant. All of that was forgotten when the man walked into the room. 

He was arrayed in a bishop's robes. Grivet thought he was a young man, until he looked closely enough to see the threads of silver in the stranger's black hair and the faint lines at the corners of his beautiful black eyes. His expression was serene and distant, as pitiless as that of an angel of battle. He seemed to lower his mind from the contemplation of some fierce holy mystery in order to smile at Grivet. 

"Monsieur, you must pardon me. I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner, not at all. But now that I'm here you would hardly be so boorish as to neglect to invite me to share your meal. The innkeeper here is generous with his portions, and I have heard the dinners of the Jolly Goat are beyond compare." 

Grivet had been getting to his feet in anger. Now he fell back into his chair stammering. Until that moment he would have protested that his will was firm, that he took no insolence, that he would bend for no one but the King himself, unless it was for his inescapable minister M. Mazarin. The presence of this holy stranger, however, had turned Grivet's will into a trembling blade of grass before a strong north wind. He swallowed to moisten his dry throat and clambered to his feet, nearly tripping. 

"I would be honored if you would dine with me," he said with a bow. "May I know who I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Monseigneur will suffice for the moment," said the stranger, taking a seat opposite Grivet's place. 

"Very good, Monseigneur. I'll just call in my man so he may serve us promptly." 

"Hold on," said the bishop, raising a pale, graceful hand. "I have a piece of business to transact with you, and it would improve my appetite to have it settled at once. You are Grivet, of the firm of Fleury and Grivet out of Arras, which holds a number of contracts to supply the army with provisions?"

"I am he, Monseigneur." 

"Good. A part of your business, if I am not mistaken, is with Marshal Turenne." 

"I don't deal with such great men personally, you understand, Monseigneur, but I am in the way of–." 

"You are in a position to report on some part of his activities, to question men who serve under him, in short, to exercise whatever wit you may have to surveil him. No, no, I shall not have your protestations of honor and probity. Let us take all that as spoken. I've had an unpleasant morning's journey and all I, poor sufferer as I am, wish in this world is a little peace, unbroken by your commonplace sentiments. Let us understand each other, M. Grivet. You have no choice but to give me what I want. A man's will is not his own if he will first take money out of his business that is not his–can you breathe? Good.–if he will first steal funds that ought to be shared with his partner, I say, and then brag about it to his mistress, and then, like a common slob, mistreat that mistress–well, in that case a man might be compelled to do anything sooner than face exposure and ruin. You have been very foolish, M. Grivet. Perhaps you are thinking of revenge. Strangle the thought in its infancy. By the time you return home the lady will be out of your reach. If you seek her, far, far worse will happen to you than a fortuitous meeting with a simple country priest. Understand the situation as it is: to me, you are but one weak support of a plan held up by many strong pillars. To you, I am the hand of Providence itself."

All this time the stranger had not raised his voice. He spoke his final words into a cold, sparking silence: 

"May I count on you, monsieur, to provide me with the reports I ask for? It is not so very much, is it?"

Grivet's lips worked without summoning speech for some time. He was pale and trembling, sweat beading his upper lip. His hatred for this man grappled with an overmastering awe. It felt as though the stranger had reached into him and plucked out his soul and now held it naked in the palm of his hand. Finally, bowing once more as stiffly as if a great hand were bending his spine for him, Grivet said, "I am at your orders, Monseigneur." 

"Very good," said the bishop. "You will learn in due time where to direct your reports. Now you may call in your servant, before this excellent dinner grows any colder." He gave Grivet a smile of such grace and friendliness that the pathetic man returned it, feeling as grateful as though that smile had been a gift. 

Dinner was served promptly. Grivet and his unexpected guest exchanged no conversation. 

Aramis found the meal as peaceful and satisfying as he could have wished after what truly had been a trying journey. When the first bottle of wine was empty, he gave Grivet's servant money to buy another from the innkeeper. 

 

The next morning found Aramis settling into lavish rooms–left vacant and made over to his use by a fellow Jesuit–at Fontainbleu. His mail had come ahead of him, and no sooner had he refreshed himself from the last leg of his trip than he sat down with the small stack of letters. He first examined and committed to memory the latest missives from several of his agents, both willing and, like the wretched M. Grivet, coerced. He burned the most sensitive ones and locked the rest into a portfolio. Then he turned his attention to the final letter, which he had put aside as soon as he had seen who it was from: the Count de La Fère.

"Dear Athos," murmured Aramis, raising his eyes briefly to the heavens as he broke the seal. 

Athos wrote with evident pleasure of his country life: of his garden and his walks, of his reading and his attempts at writing, of the church he was considering having refurbished, of Raoul's most recent visit. Aramis smiled and shook his head by turns at this evidence of a mode of life unknown to him. 

_You will find it peculiar,_ Athos wrote, _that with as much time as I have, I am dilatory in completing my memoirs. Yet here in the quiet of Blois, with my small pleasures and concerns, receiving only distant news of the world to ruffle my calm, I find that what pleases me most is contemplation. You recall, I am sure, that in our wild, unthinking youth our conversation still meandered from time to time onto weighty matters, and you and I, Aramis, agreed then upon the beauty of a life of Christian contemplation. I find myself now in the perfect setting to realize that dream. I reflect constantly and deeply. Often, it is you who occupies my thoughts._

_Do not disclaim in false modesty. Why should I not think of you, long one of my dearest friends, though the tides of our lives have so often kept us apart? I worry about you, Aramis. I tell you this frankly, for you know me and know that I speak no comforting falsehoods to those I love and esteem. Yes, I worry about you. Out of all us scattered friends you have always had the finest, the most subtle mind. I fear you are leashing that mind in service to base goals. Even in my retirement I hear the odd piece of news about you that tells me you are as deep as ever in worldly machinations and schemes for material advancement. You play at war and politics, my very dear Aramis, and it grieves me–you, who might turn your powers to the advancement and improvement of your fellow men, or even to the greater perfection of your own soul. I ask you to think seriously of the path you are on and where it may lead you._

_If ever you need a quiet place to stay, Blois is open to you, and my counsel and all my powers of understanding are at your disposal. Think, Aramis, while other paths than the one you now walk are still open to you._

"Dear, good Athos," said Aramis, folding the letter with a sigh but keeping it in his hand as he paced his sumptuous chamber. "Sly Athos, is more like it. News of me reaches him, does it! He leaves his country bliss to visit Porthos, and Porthos tells him all. In my great affection for him I am too open about my thoughts–Porthos has a great heart, but he can't keep a secret. I shall have to keep a closer guard on my tongue when I am with him henceforth." 

After another minute's disconsolate pacing, he continued to himself thus: "Athos knows what I am. He knows... and yet he is Athos, so this letter is no pose. He believes, it would appear, that I can be a holy man. After all, is there not something beautiful in all this rustic simplicity? Athos might have all the world's power and wealth, but he cares nothing for them. He buries himself in a hole and he works at his plants and his memoirs... and he is happy! He who was once the wildest of us, who would have skewered himself on an enemy's blade for a joke any day. If Athos can be made happy by this life, then why not I? Perhaps he is right. He means to shame me; shouldn't I be ashamed, that I am not the man my great and noble friend believes I can be? Am I not bound to make his beliefs, worthy and sincere as they are, a reality? I will leave off scheming, as he says–at least, I will scheme only for the common good. Perhaps I will construct a cathedral, to stand as my legacy. And I will spend more time in contemplation, that I may begin to approach the lofty spirit of Athos..." 

The more Aramis thought about it, the more he became convinced that Athos's letter had reached him in time to keep him from doing anything Athos would truly disapprove of. That toad Grivet yesterday? If ever a man deserved to have his arm twisted, he was the one; there was no stain on Aramis's soul there. He had acted for the good of all. His wider attempts to exert control over the Spanish war by gaining a hold over the impregnable Turenne, however, might conceivably be open to the criticism of being overzealous, if nothing worse. 

That was settled, then. He would visit Athos. Under Athos's influence, he would find true piety and humility. He would leave the schemes to the schemers. He would know peace. 

The reader, going forward, must not judge our friend Aramis too harshly. There is no telling how far he might have carried his resolution, had there been no interruption. His heart had softened in response to the image of Athos's nobility, and an old impulse to be worthy of Athos's esteem, which had driven him to all manner of nonsense when they were both merely musketeers, had awoken from its slumber. 

But there was an interruption. 

A young priest, slender and nervous, was brought in to see him. Aramis's expression took on a shade of calculating wariness–but absolutely no surprise–when he saw him. The young man's eyes widened in almost comical apprehension as he stumbled through a greeting.

"It's Father Le Bel, isn't it," Aramis said kindly. 

"Yes, M. d'Herblay," answered the priest with a perfunctory smile. He was pale, and his jaw trembled when he spoke. "My mistress wishes you to attend her. Urgently."

"That is an event, an honor. I will be with Her Majesty as soon as I'm fit for company." 

Aramis just caught the sound of Le Bel's breath hissing out between his teeth in relief. 

"I will bring her the happy news now," said Le Bel, excusing himself from the room. 

When he had gone, Aramis looked down to where he still held Athos's letter, then impatiently thrust it into the portfolio, carefully locking it once more. 

"What could my old friend Christina have to say to me?" he wondered aloud. 

 

At this time, as Aramis well knew, the one-time Queen Christina of Sweden had been resident at Fontainbleu for close to a month. She had met and favorably impressed Louis XIV and his mother, and she featured in an activity near and dear to Cardinal Mazarin's heart: the liberation of Naples. 

Countless pens have tried to capture the matchless, scandalous character of Christina of Sweden. The author submits this brief portrait as yet another attempt to represent a part of that lady's story, by no means comprising the whole. 

Christina, since her early years, had dressed, talked, acted, and finally ruled her kingdom as a man. She had dedicated the passions of her youth to _la belle comtesse_ Ebba Sparre and had not ceased to love her. She had been censured for her behavior and for her decided intention never to marry. She had abdicated her throne to her cousin Charles X Gustav, fled Sweden disguised as a man, converted in secret to the Catholic faith, and had for some years now been living in Rome under Pope Alexander's protection. She was now thirty years old, a somewhat enforced guest of the French court at Fontainbleu. Among her retinue, notably, was one Marquis Gian Rinaldo Monaldeschi, a son of a once-illustrious Italian family but lately fallen from consequence. 

When Aramis arrived in her apartments he found the queen sprawled in an armchair, surrounded by her attendants. She wore a man's jacket and a skirt such as a washerwoman might wear. Her stiff, short hair was a mess of curls. Her features were mobile and full of charm, the more so when she grinned upon receiving Aramis. 

"Marvelous!" she said. "I hadn't thought to meet my good friend d'Herblay here." 

"Her Majesty knows I am always drawn to her presence–well I remember my visit to Uppsala when that court's guiding star still shone upon it." 

Christina laughed. "What a perfectly insinuating courtier you are. By the way, I have never thanked you for throwing the good Father Le Bel in my way when I found myself in need of a confessor. Oh, yes, I know a whispered word from you smoothed the way there–though it seems indelicate to mention with you dressed as you are." 

For Aramis, to avoid notice on his way to an interview he expected to prove highly interesting, had dressed in riding clothes and presented a perfect dapper figure of a gentleman, with no suggestion of the priest about him, unless it was the surpassing graciousness of his expression. 

"I confess that I would feel unmanned in your presence in any other guise, Your Majesty," Aramis responded. "I wonder if you have heard from my colleague and correspondent the Cardinal Azzolino lately?"

Christina was an intriguer on a grand scale, and yet at times she demonstrated all the subtlety of a child. She took no harm from this barb of Aramis's but admitted frankly, "We write to each other as much as we can, and from the heart, now that we may not see each other so often as we like. Though I assure you, I desire nothing that would offend Azzolino's vows. I admit without shame or hesitation my passionate devotion to him–as the friend of my heart, a passion entirely apart from the grossness of the flesh." 

From anyone else Aramis would have looked on such a speech with patent cynicism; from Christina, he came very close to believing it wholly, falling short of full faith only because it served the dictates of his political method to doubt a little the accounts men and women gave of themselves. 

"Now," continued the queen, "have we gone through enough preliminaries to satisfy your sense of decorum, or shall we exchange a few more volleys before we proceed?"

"Proceed, Your Majesty?" Aramis repeated softly. 

"A woman I may be, for so they tell me I am, but I have no love for woman's gossip."

"You speak so like a man, Your Majesty, that I make so bold as to tell you what I tell all men who repeat inanities of that nature to me–that you have not been in company with the right sort of women, or else you would appreciate their gossip, even as I do." 

"Wasted gallantry, d'Herblay! But I know that is always your way. Let it be enough, now."

"Do you mean to tell me that you have not extended this gracious invitation to me so that we might revive the theological debate we were obliged to put away when I was your guest in Uppsala?"

"Who's to say we won't have time for that later? Truly, d'Herblay–you know very well that this is more than a reunion between friends. Leave us, now," she called to her attendants. When they were gone from the room, she invited Aramis to sit with her beneath a window well removed from the doors. 

"Your Majesty is the last person I would have expected to be plagued by spying domestics," Aramis commented, glancing towards the closed doors the attendants had lately passed through. 

"Am I so cruel?" asked the queen. 

"Not at all–only very honest. The honest have little to fear from spies." 

"Ah, well might you say that–but even the honest may have confidences, if they involve themselves in affairs of state. Even the honest may be betrayed." A momentary tremor of rage went through Christina's expressive face. 

"I begin to comprehend," thought Aramis.

"You must let me know what affairs of state you have thrown yourself into, Your Majesty, for I, a humble priest, take no part in these matters and know of them but dimly." 

"Is that so?–well, let it pass, if it pleases you. I am poised between the interests of France and Spain, on a question Rome is not indifferent to. Among all these conflicting interests, I am very open to espionage, much as it disgusts me." 

"And has someone dared to betray you, Your Majesty?" said Aramis in gently feigned shock. "Have you summoned me so that I may advise you on how to proceed?"

"No," said the queen. "I know what I must do." Fixing Aramis with her large eyes she said, "I brought you here to apprise you of my plans and extract a promise from you that you will not interfere." 

"Interfere!" Aramis exclaimed. "When you act, so far as I perceive your purposes, in concert with France's own M. Mazarin?" 

"And this is the dim knowledge you have of state matters! By God, d'Herblay, do you ever speak the truth?"

Aramis was momentarily embarrassed by this blunt accusation. "There's no shame in discretion," he said, finally. 

"Oh, have it your way. I hadn't known, incidentally, that you were so staunch an ally of M. Mazarin? Is it not, in a fact, quite another interest you serve?"

"And you believe I will interfere with your actions to further that other interest?"

"Yes. Honestly, now–did Le Bel call you to Fontainbleu?"

"No."

She scrutinized him, then shrugged. "But you have heard something." 

"I knew only that Your Majesty was at Fontainbleu with her household." 

"My household!" exclaimed Christina, slapping her hand imperiously against her thigh. "And there you have it. Among my household there is a viper, a Judas, selling my secrets to undermine my campaign upon Naples." 

"That is grave news, Your Majesty. Who is this Judas?"

"I will say no more until I have your promise to stay your hand, before and after the deed is done. I am not so foolish as to beg for your assistance in carrying it out, and anyway, I have my own resources." 

Aramis thought, but not for very long. It was true that he had no liking for Mazarin and no desire to see his wishes gratified. In fact in all the web of allegiances that Aramis pulled and that drew upon him, the most uncomfortable yank came from Spain, with Rome an insistent second–and neither party would have been happy to see Christina on the throne of Naples. And Aramis perceived that there was some hidden advantage to be wrung out of this situation, before he and the queen reached any agreement. 

"I am afraid I cannot oblige you. Even if I did have such powers to interfere in your affairs as you pretend to ascribe to me, I wouldn't be able to engage to use or withhold them until I understood who would be harmed and who would be the gainer."

Christina gave a dark laugh. "You didn't tarry long before coming to that point." 

"Your Majesty has shown she appreciates directness." 

"And you're trying your crooked best, I know. Let us see–Marshal Turenne's army is encamped at Fort-Mardyck. The godless king-killing English have sent him men to swell his ranks. They are all aimed, thought blindly, at Dunkirk, where the Spaniards are dug in. Is that so?"

"Since you say it, it must be so," Aramis allowed. 

"In the spring Turenne will attack Dunkirk–and won't he be grateful to anyone who can give him intelligence on its defenses, the disposition of its ships, the condition of its stores?"

Aramis grasped at once what an inducement she was offering. He had been scrabbling for a hold over Marshal Turenne for months now, without success, and the pursuit was beginning to feel grubby. Turenne was as near to spotless as a man beholden to the French court could be. He was a consummate soldier, a beloved commander, a leader who sought to uplift his men and a servant who sought to bring honor to his superiors. If he had personal vices they were such as anyone would pardon him. Anyone seeking to gain influence over him would be much better served by finding a way to advance the war–which was just what Christina was offering Aramis, always assuming she had it. 

"And are you in a position to deliver that intelligence, Your Majesty?" he asked carefully. 

"I've had my suspicions of this man in my household for some time. When I had his correspondence seized recently I discovered evidence of his malfeasance towards me–and also something else. There is a letter describing his encounter with a Spanish privateer based out of Dunkirk–don't ask me what such a man was doing in Rome. This man in my service stole information from the Spaniard, and then memorialized it for his own use. I have no need of such information." 

"Except as a lever to win support from those those taking an interest in Turenne." And how had she heard of his interest? But then perhaps he had not been so careful about keeping that information close. By now he imagined Turenne himself must have a suspicion he was being stalked, if Chrisina had heard of it. And who else? Athos, perhaps?

The thought of Athos fell into the pit of Aramis's stomach like a cold stone. Aramis ignored it. 

"That does sound plausible, Your Majesty, and I see that you appreciate fully what a treasure this information could be to the right man." 

"The right man would have it a short time after Monaldeschi was dead, if his death passed without undue scandal." 

She had let Monaldeschi's name fall just a shade too casually. When it was said she pinned Aramis with a searching gaze, noting his reaction minutely. He said, calmly, "A visiting monarch has right of life and death over her own people in France. I see no reason for you to be troubled on account of a small domestic fracas." 

"Am I to take that as your promise, d'Herblay?" There was no question that Christina had been disappointed at Aramis's reaction to Monaldeschi's name. 

"Your Majesty has given me no assurance, as such, and I don't expect any. I in turn would hope to be accorded the same courtesy. I would also hope that you would have the kindness to stay your hand until I am away. I plan to leave tomorrow morning, so that should pose no problem to Your Majesty...?" 

"Very well," said Christina, smiling a grim little smile. "I will delay my vengeance. We understand each other?" 

"We do indeed. It has been a pleasure, Your Majesty. I am as ever your servant." 

Aramis found himself dismissed and left the apartment by an outside passage. He was pleased. He had by no means been convinced, when Le Bel–who had guard of Monaldeschi's letters but had received only hints of their contents–had written to him, that there was anything in that affair worth his personal attention. On this occasion he was glad to have been proven wrong. The journey had been well worth the trouble. 

Aramis was at ease with the world and his place in it, with the shadow of Athos's disapproval all but forgotten–when a darker and far more material shadow appeared at the periphery of his vision in the form of a lieutenant of musketeers, coming towards him up the path. 

 

D'Artagnan had been dispatched to Fontainbleu in the lowly role of courier. His much-abused pride was throbbing dully when the wholly unexpected sight of Aramis creeping along–not that Aramis could ever really be said to _creep_ –gladdened his spirits and roused his curiosity. Approaching, he saw the beatific expression on Aramis's face flicker, a sure sign that d'Artagnan had been seen. 

"Aramis, my friend!" he called, when he was too close to be avoided without causing a scene. "Where are you scurrying off to in such a hurry?"

Aramis paused and turned to d'Artagnan in very convincing surprise and what was likely genuine joy. "D'Artagnan! This is an unexpected pleasure! I'm sorry, I didn't see you until you called out. My mind was preoccupied contemplating the glory of God." 

"I expect nothing less of you, Aramis," d'Artagnan answered, not without irony. 

Though naturally suspecting Aramis of being embroiled in some knotty intrigue, d'Artagnan was so pleased to see him, and see him unchanged, that there was no want of sincerity in his embrace. His mind worked, though: as a matter of course he had informed himself about the principal personages in residence at Fontainbleu on his arrival, and thus he could conclude with reasonable certainty that Aramis had come from apartments occupied by Queen Christina. Had he been seeing her, or a member of her household? 

Had she been any other lady of high rank, d'Artagnan would have suspected Aramis equally of political and romantic intrigues. Knowing something of the gossip surrounding Christina of Sweden, he was nearly certain the matter was political. Had he not heard, from Athos perhaps, that Aramis had had a part in the Queen's conversion? 

"What brings you here so fortuitously?" Aramis asked as d'Artagnan linked arms with him and the pair continued on the path Aramis had been following. 

"A piddling commission from a mincing prince to deliver a letter of business. I'm awaiting a reply to carry back." 

"Then your time is your own until then?"

"Until then," d'Artagnan confirmed. 

"Then we have a chance to catch up–always supposing the response doesn't come too soon." 

"The danger of that is slight. Don't worry, you won't be robbed of my company before you're ready for it." 

"On the contrary," replied Aramis, smiling, "any time would be too soon to be deprived of your company, had I no cares of my own and no fears for my immortal soul when you are with me." 

"Damn, it is impossible for me to take you seriously when you say that dressed as you are, my dear, missing only your sword to make the perfect picture of a gentleman of arms. Why have you left off your cassock? It isn't to baffle observers, perhaps?" 

"What a suspicious mind you have, d'Artagnan! Would you believe it if I said I occasionally don such garments out of nostalgia for our lost youth?"

"Perhaps," said d'Artagnan, unable to suppress a grin. "And then perhaps not. You're a tricky one, Aramis, as we both know." 

"I! I'm as straightforward as a game of quinze." 

"Played in the dark for mortal stakes," d'Artagnan rejoined. "I don't love you any the less for it, but it's true all the same." 

Aramis laughed easily. "If you couch your insults in such terms I have no choice but to let them pass." 

"Just as I intended. Seriously, now–have you been with her former majesty of Sweden?"

Aramis's reaction to this maneuver told d'Artagnan precisely nothing. "Is that what you think I have been doing?" he asked with a playful edge to his voice. 

"A random remark only," d'Artagnan assured him. "But I'm prying–I'll leave you to your business, since you've been so good as to leave mine untouched." 

And little good would the wretched prince's land purchase do him if he did know about it! d'Artagnan thought–almost with confidence. With Aramis there was really no telling. 

"How kind," said Aramis. 

He was about to say more when a man came hurtling around the blind corner they had come to and bumped Aramis's shoulder as he passed. For a moment he stopped as though nailed to the ground. He looked back at Aramis and d'Artagnan. Then he made to take a step and continue on his way, but found himself held back by Aramis's iron grip on his forearm. 

"What the devil are you playing at?" Aramis demanded haughtily. 

"Excuse me," said the man, who had a gentleman's grooming and dress but the pompous manners of a servant who thinks a little too much of his master's social position. "Excuse me, monsieur, it was a mistake. Let me pass." And he tried to tug his arm out of Aramis's grip, to no avail. 

"The pleasure grounds of Fontainbleu are a peculiar place to walk about so carelessly, wouldn't you say?" said Aramis in icy tones. 

The man drew himself up. "It's no business of yours how I choose to conduct myself, monsieur! I shall forgive your bad manners, though, as you're no doubt overcome by the rare pleasure of walking in so exalted a place." He flashed a supercilious smile that did not altogether conceal his haste to be gone. 

" _My_ bad manners!" cried Aramis, his hand going to his side, where he luckily did not find his sword. "If you have a complaint to make against my manners, monsieur, I invite you–"

"No, no," said d'Artagnan, seeing that matters had quickly gone too far and interposing himself between Aramis his would-be victim (for he had no doubt whatsoever, seeing the strange gentleman's rather showy grace, what would be the outcome of a duel between these two). "I see just where this is going, the insult, the challenge, and then who but trusty d'Artagnan to act as your second and deal with the bloody outcome? I tell you I won't be thrown out of the musketeers for the sake of a harmless misunderstanding." 

"If the gentleman believes his honor has been injured–" the stranger began, his nostrils gone white with what d'Artagnan guessed was fear. He read the situation thus: the man was justly afraid of dueling Aramis, but having discerned that d'Artagnan would protect him against that eventuality he had no compunctions about making sport of goading Aramis. It was nearly enough for d'Artagnan to let events take their natural course, but one of them had to keep a cool head. 

"My friend spoke thoughtlessly," he said. "Let us say all slights are pardoned on both sides and part without any rash and ridiculous actions. Aramis?"

Aramis had mastered his flash of temper, though his face was still discomposed. Releasing the stranger's arm at last, he said, "Consider it forgotten." 

"Monsieur?" said d'Artagnan. 

The stranger rubbed his arm, wincing. "Oh, I suppose I'll let it go," he said, the worry clearing from his rather handsome face as he grew increasingly secure. "If monsieur has any further complains, he may address them to Gian Rinaldo Monaldeschi at his convenience." And he made a bow, just exaggerated enough to be an insult all its own. 

D'Artagnan's eyes went instantly to Aramis's face to check for signs of renewed danger–and instead surprised a look of humorous calculation on his friend's features. 

"I don't foresee that being necessary," said Aramis quietly. "God be with you, M. Monaldeschi." 

At that Monaldeschi nodded to d'Artagnan and continued on his way. D'Artagnan and Aramis walked on, arm in arm once more, lightly reviewing the scene just concluded, d'Artagnan half distracted with rapid calculation and taking care to give Aramis no reason to suspect his brief knowing look at Monaldeschi had not gone unnoticed. 

"You'll admit now," d'Artagnan said, "that you have nothing to fear from me in the way of staining your soul!"

"But how funny, d'Artagnan! Don't I recall a certain hot-tempered child who would fight the first comer for looking at him wrong–or his horse? Whatever happened to him?" 

"He has learned caution, and his temper had been blunted with use–whereas I perceive yours has grown all the sharper for lying deeply hid." 

"Except when it would be of least service," said Aramis, shaking his head. "I'm glad you prevented me from committing a blunder just now, d'Artagnan." 

"He wasn't worth it," d'Artagnan agreed. "Which isn't to say I would not enjoy seeing him spitted. An odious little fellow." 

"I suppose," said Aramis, charitable now, that same amused smile upon his lips. "At any rate the duty falls to another." 

"Just as well. Now, do I mistake myself, or–"

"Wait a moment," said Aramis, pulling d'Artagnan to a halt and gesturing up ahead, where a figure in priestly garb was passing. "I must go speak to that man. I'm sorry not to have more time for you just now. Perhaps we will see one another again before either of us is called away." 

"God willing," said d'Artagnan, coming to a rapid decision. When he had parted from Aramis–giving a friendly nod to the unknown priest–he walked far enough away to be out of sight, then approached from another direction, cautiously, avoiding notice. 

Aramis was too old a hand to hold his secret conferences in reach of a convenient shrubbery or a low-hanging branch, but d'Artagnan's hearing was good and he was very determined. Concealed as close to the speakers as he dared, he was able to pick out a few phrases by dint of listening for them–"my royal mistress" was spoken by the little priest, and "the papers"; by Aramis, "safest in your care" and "prove most useful." This was all incredibly clear, and d'Artagnan did not wrack his brains overmuch to come up with theories about the contents of the papers in the little priest's care. He observed carefully and saw that no papers exchanged hands. He saw Aramis and his interlocutor separate. There was hardly any doubt, but d'Artagnan, as soon as he could, discretely followed the priest as far as he could go without being noticed–most of the way to Queen Christina's apartments. 

After that it took little skill to question the guards of Fontainbleu under the guise of aimless chat–from which d'Artagnan gathered that the name of Christina's confessor was Le Bel, and that the offensive Monaldeschi was Her Majesty's master of the horse. 

With this d'Artagnan went for a walk to arrange matters in his mind. 

Aramis was meditating some plot against this Monaldeschi, evidently, though he had not known him to recognize. Why? That was a question to ponder on a later day, at leisure. What it came to now was a choice, and not a difficult one: warn Monaldeschi of his danger, or leave him to his fate?

Thus did d'Artagnan reason: trouble for insignificant Monaldeschi was likely to mean trouble for Queen Christina–which M. Mazarin, who was relying on Christina, leading French soldiers, to take Naples for him, would find untoward. D'Artagnan's interests, in their general drift, were aligned with Mazarin's. On the other hand, there was no reason for Mazarin to ever learn that d'Artagnan might have spoiled a plot against his interests. And, overwhelmingly, d'Artagnan could not warm to the idea of putting that worm Monaldeschi on his guard. He had already done all he could stomach in that line by sparing the man the embarrassment of dying in a duel with Aramis. 

However, there was a further consideration, on another trajectory: what was Aramis's place in all this? D'Artagnan did not pretend to follow the labyrinthine paths of Aramis's loyalties and treacheries, but he was canny enough to see cause for worry. A friend of Aramis's might think it appropriate to intervene in his affairs at this juncture. Naturally, to do so, that friend would need a better understanding of those affairs. 

For this reason, his walk took him eventually back to Queen Christina's apartments, and when he saw Father Le Bel emerge from the rooms, he caught up with him a little distance away. 

"A minute of your time, Father Le Bel?" he said. 

The priest nearly leapt out of his skin as he swiveled his head and stared wild-eyed at d'Artagnan. Whatever intrigues he was involved in with Aramis, his nerves were clearly not up to the strain. 

"Ah–M. d'Herblay's friend, isn't it?" said Le Bel.

"That's right," said d'Artagnan, delighted by this ready opening. "It was he who sent me to speak to you. It's too dangerous now for the two of you to be seen together," d'Artagnan added, leaning in close and speaking a low, conspiratorial voice. 

Feverish excitement glimmered in Le Bel's eyes, and he looked nervously around first in one direction, then in the other. Terrified of intrigue yet playing at it like a child, d'Artagnan diagnosed. 

"Oh, yes," said Le Bel, "I thought it would be. I was so surprised when he spoke to me earlier!" 

D'Artagnan thought wryly: "Because he was desperate to be rid of me." 

"He has thought better of his carelessness," he said. "He also wishes the documents to be in the hands of a third party as soon as possible. Your royal mistress won't miss them before it's too late, and by then they'll have reached their intended destination." 

"But I thought..." Le Bel stammered. "That is, M. d'Herblay said nothing of this."

"He couldn't, when you were likely to be overheard, could he? Our dear M. d'Herblay knows how to take precautions, but a determined spy can work miracles." 

"I suppose so," said Le Bel unhappily. "But if I am found out?"

"You will say nothing, of course. You seem like an able, circumspect fellow. I'm sure it will be no trouble for you to hold your tongue, if some ill chance turns against us." 

"Naturally," murmured Le Bel. 

"You do have the papers on you, yes?"

"They have been continually on my person since Her Majesty entrusted them to me." The thought of his mistress's trust clearly did not improve his mood. "Well, I have already broken faith telling M. d'Herblay what I did–this will be no worse. There are higher loyalties... Can I trust you not to let these papers out of your sight until they are in M. d'Herblay's hands, lieutenant?" 

"I swear it," said d'Artagnan with commendable sincerity, lying as glibly as Aramis had to Christina earlier that day. 

Le Bel insisted on finding a sheltered spot, and then he removed the papers from a packet containing a great many others, which he had carried inside his clothes. A visible wave of relief went through him as he relinquished them. 

"You won't regret this," said d'Artagnan, shaking Le Bel warmly by the hand. "I'll pass on to Aramis how cooperative and brave you've been." 

Le Bel accepted this flattery in the spirit it was intended. 

It was all d'Artagnan could do to wait until he was well and truly alone to pull out the papers and study them–and then at last he understood. 

"So Aramis is after Turenne, is he? For may I be damned if this isn't just what you'd need to earn the marshal's eternal gratitude..." 

For a few minutes d'Artagnan indulged the fantasy of going to Turenne himself and squeezing all the advantage he could out of this chance. To no longer languish in ignoble obscurity, with drudgery his daily fare! Why not, after all? 

But Aramis would understand at once what had happened, and, even more than he did not want Aramis as an enemy, d'Artagnan did not want to be a traitor. It may be difficult for the reader to follow our friend d'Artagnan's reasoning: had he not already betrayed Aramis by spying on him, by extracting the papers from Le Bel under false pretenses? But in d'Artagnan's mind all this was only the natural duty of Aramis's friends, to keep a check on his intrigues. Using the information obtained in this way for his own gain would be an entirely different step, and one d'Artagnan was loath to take. 

"Besides," he said to himself, "I would have the devil of a time explaining how I'd gotten my hands on the information. You would need to be an Aramis to get out of that!" 

There was another question: admitting that he could not use the papers himself, was he to give Aramis the chance of profiting from them? What did Aramis want with Marshal Turenne, anyway? Did d'Artagnan have the right to keep the papers from Aramis, without any reason to believe the Aramis's plans for them were harmful to France, or anyone d'Artagnan cared for? After all, Aramis was tricky, but he was not a villain. 

D'Artagnan tucked the papers away in the breast of his jacket. When the time came, he would dispose of them properly. 

Still, he was not easy until the next morning, when he saw Aramis getting into this carriage while d'Artagnan himself was waiting for his horse to be brought to him. 

Aramis, seeing him, waved him over to his carriage window. He displayed no symptoms of having had an inconvenient encounter with Father Le Bel. 

"Is your business happily concluded, d'Artagnan?" he asked. 

"All is well. And with you?" 

"Nothing amiss. I don't suppose our roads lie together?" 

"I go north to Paris," answered d'Artagnan. 

"And I return west to my flock. Too bad!" 

"There's never enough time when one is with old, dear friends," said d'Artagnan. 

"You must visit me, my dear," said Aramis. 

"At the earliest opportunity," d'Artagnan promised. 

A little later they parted on the road, having traveled together far enough to share the cost of lunch at an inn. Current intrigues were put aside, past ones revived in vivid memory, and the wine flowed freely. They parted as much friends as ever. 

 

"A tawdry bloodbath!" said Aramis. "The woman is mad." He read the letter again, fixing the details of Monaldeschi's grotesquely botched death more firmly in his mind, the better to fuel his wrath against Christina. 

"I thought," said Porthos, from across the table, "that you approved of her having him assassinated?" 

Aramis was as near now to rusticating as he ever came: that is, he had come to visit Porthos for a few days. Porthos's ardent, uncomplicated friendship came without moral judgment or penetrating observations, and, as always, Aramis had found himself soothed and entertained.

"Oh, she's done everyone but herself a favor by ridding the world of the maggot," he said. "But in such a fashion! Nothing can save her reputation now–Naples is an unattainable dream–I don't imagine she'll be staying in France much longer than it takes the queen mother to summon troops to expel her. Even the friendship of M. Mazarin can't protect Christina against this deed. And she owns it proudly!" 

"She must be a very strange woman," said Porthos reflectively. "Not at all like anyone I've ever met. Do you think I would enjoy meeting her? I'm a little jealous of you, Aramis, with your wide acquaintance." 

"No, Porthos, don't envy me. Your sensitive soul would weep to see a woman so coarse and unwomanly." 

"Well, all right, then. But still, as a curiosity–"

"She's curious enough, yes. But you don't want to be seen to befriend her now. Shall I tell you about her? For I first met her as a young lady of twenty-three or thereabouts, and then, you know, her peculiarities had the charm of novelty. I will describe it all." 

"Please do," said Porthos, reaching for another bottle of wine to fill their empty glasses. "I love to hear you speak. Your words bring the pictures right into my mind." 

Aramis's heart warmed at this honest praise, and he was not sorry for the opportunity to recount his visit to Christina's capital and at the same time draw attention away from her recent actions, in which he found much to be dissatisfied with. 

The bitterest disappointment of all was also the strangest: he had received a letter from Marshal Turenne just days ago, so stiffly formal that it must have been drawn up by a clerk. Turenne thanked him for the information he had so disinterestedly supplied concerning Dunkirk's defenses and assured him that it would be put to good use. That word, disinterestedly, had struck Aramis with force.

How had the papers reached Turenne? Had it been Queen Christina's doing, her revenge for Aramis's perceived breaking of their bargain? Had she given the papers to someone else, someone whose cruel sense of humor had led him to taunt Aramis by giving Turenne the papers in his name? 

Le Bel had not communicated with him–Aramis supposed he was ashamed to have dragged Aramis into a scheme so little profitable to him, to which was now added the risk of being too closely linked with the foreign barbarian queen. On that score, at least, Aramis was easy; he had kept his distance. 

Perhaps Christina had never meant to honor their bargain. Who knew, with such a woman as this incident had proven her to be? Far from the quiet, orderly, plausibly accidental killing Aramis had envisioned, she had made a spectacle of it and then jumped up to take the credit. 

Decidedly whoever had concocted this stroke had put Turenne out of Aramis's power for good. 

But all was not lost. Christina could not now lead the liberation of Naples–and with that plan falling through, Aramis's interests were as well served as if he _had_ found a way to influence the war. And he had not ad to lift a finger to accomplish it. 

He thought, for the first time since that day, of Athos's letter, which was still locked safely in his portfolio. He had certainly not retired into a life of beneficent piety. He was committed to going forward with his machinations, which were all in the final estimate merely lucrative distractions as he waited for his grander plan to mature. 

Boys did take such a long time to grow into men. 

He had finished with the young Queen Christina now and had moved on to telling Porthos of his encounter with d'Artagnan, in which Porthos naturally took a healthy interest. Aramis felt, as he spoke, the ghost of a doubt–d'Artagnan had been there, and d'Artagnan was too clever for comfort. Could he be the author of this mystery? Aramis let the idea dissipate as quickly as it had come. He believed, deep down, that his own intelligence was more than a match for d'Artagnan's. Whatever had gone wrong, Aramis himself was at fault. He should have expected Christina to botch it somehow and known better than to entangle himself, however slightly. He took a certain pride in taking total ownership even of his failures. 

He would know better next time.

**Author's Note:**

> I have, naturally, taken extensive and impermissible liberties with the historical figures appearing in this story, and note that Christina's life makes for excellent reading.


End file.
